


Trappings of comity

by chimosa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimosa/pseuds/chimosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, then, who do you belong to, handsome?”<br/> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Trappings of comity

**Author's Note:**

> Just a brief palate cleanser after that last work. Hope you enjoy it and, as always, feedback is like a sun shower on a summer day.

Will has been losing weight. He can feel it in the way his jacket engulfs his shoulders, his frame lost in the black of his best suit. Though Will tries not to look into mirrors too often, they make him uncomfortably aware of the dark bruises under his eyes from sleepless nights and the ever-present web of wrinkles that line his khakis, tonight he’s had to make an exception. 

When he had agreed to go with Hannibal to the symphony, he’d been going on day five of a coffee-and-ibuprofen fueled case. As usual, it was a race against the clock to find a killer before another kindergarten teacher disappeared, and the idea of it had seemed so far removed from the corpse bloated with the Arizona noon heat, maggots crawling just underneath her skin, rippling like waves on the beach, that he had agreed to the sheer novelty of it. 

It also hadn’t helped that at the time he was only 78 percent certain that Hannibal wasn’t a hallucination. He probably would have agreed to giving Hannibal his kidney at that point, had he asked.

But a week later, Hannibal held open his office door per usual as Will stumbled out of his appointment, still hung over from the chase.

“I will pick you up tomorrow at six,” the psychiatrist had said, closing the door before Will could fully puzzle together the meaning of his statement. 

Looking in the mirror, Will can’t imagine he will be particularly good company, for all that he got a record four hours of sleep the night before. His blue eyes flicker nervously as he fiddles with his cuffs, tries to tuck in his shirt, but nothing can quite change the fact that he looks like an adolescent barely filling out his daddy’s suit.

The dogs bark madly as his bedside clock lights 6:00, and Will can hear the front door click open as Hannibal lets himself in.

“Bribing my dogs?” Will asks as Hannibal reaches down to feed the smallest from his open palm. 

“We have an understanding,” Hannibal says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. He shows so few emotions that Will has heard him described as cold and aloof. For Will, who finds most people have far too many expressions, Hannibal is refreshing. It’s easy to look into his eyes when he knows he’s not going to drown in inessential information. Each small facial tick is like a brush stroke across a white canvass; magnified and given that much more significance for being so spare.

Will pats Winston, the only member of the pack not sniffing around Hannibal’s smart, leather shoes, on the head. Looking at Hannibal’s togetherness makes Will’s fingers twitch. Hannibal’s suit is well-tailored, and the color of his pocket square matches his shirt impeccably. His tie offsets his eyes and the intelligence in them gleams all the brighter for it. 

“Ready?” Will asks, pushing out the door, wanting to leave before Hannibal can see how disheveled he is in comparison. 

Hannibal stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Instinctively, Will turns to face him and is surprised when Hannibal runs a knuckle across his exposed cheekbone.

“You shaved,” Hannibal says, and Will is close enough he can see the lines where a precise comb has brushed Hannibal’s hair away from his forehead. 

“It seemed appropriate.”

Hannibal makes a painfully neutral sound and Will regrets the morning’s impulse to rid himself of the scruff. It seemed like a good idea at the time, since he was going to be in polite society and all, but as soon as he washed away the lather he realized it only made him look painfully young. With so much pale skin showing his eyes were impossibly large and, paired with his perpetual need of a haircut and the thin hollowness around his cheekbones, it only made him look like some Dickensian waif. 

Shrugging, Will adjusts his glasses, armor firmly in place. As he steps outside, he can’t help but notice the brightness of the sky as it peeks through the trees’ spring leaves. “It seems awfully early to be seeing a performance.”

Hannibal opens the car door for Will, manners impeccable as always. “There is a cocktail reception beforehand. Did I neglect to mention this is an opening gala for the new season?”

_Of course it is._ Will sighs as he sinks into the leather passenger seat, palms pricking with sweat as he anticipates the impending agony of small talk with strangers.

The only other time Will has been to the Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall was as part of an investigation, so he is properly impressed with the pomp and circumstance of the glittering chandeliers and the equally bright glitterati. The occasional flash of a camera illuminates the hall and flutes of champagne clink above the murmur of those eager to see and be seen. 

As Will classifies himself as neither, he huddles by a corner near the back wall, waiting for Hannibal to finish making his round of kissing cheeks and shaking hands. If Will were a braver man he would have followed Hannibal around the room, as obedient as Winston as he trailed the other man’s heels. Thankfully, in the span of time they have known one another, Hannibal seems to have a keen understanding of what Will is and is not capable of, so it was a relief when he found himself steered toward the small cafe table and told to excuse Hannibal for just a minute. 

Hannibal is clearly in his element, his poise as he cuts through the room highlighted even more here mingling amongst his peers than it could in Will’s world of red-eye flights and crappy, government- subsidized motel rooms. Will watches as the man he speaks to tips his head back, laughing heartily at something Hannibal says. Hannibal looks at the woman to his right with an easy, charming smile and Will can’t help but feel smug that Hannibal’s eyes belie his boredom. 

He sips at a glass of effervescent wine absently. He knows it’s a bad idea to drink on the lack of food and sleep that has begun to typify his life, but his hands get restless and it tastes so much better than the swill Quantico provides at their holiday faculty parties. 

“Not here alone, are you?”

The lecherous smile Will finds himself looking into is just as alarming as the plunging neckline of the older woman’s dress, diamonds and sapphires setting off her sagging décolletage. If she finds his widening eyes and the wild, mute shaking of his head off-putting, it certainly doesn’t show as she leans in closer, giving him a spectacular look down her dress. 

“Well, then, who do you belong to, handsome?”

A hand takes Will’s shoulder in a proprietary grip and he can’t help but sink back, relieved as the familiar voice interrupts smoothly.

“Ah, Anita. I see you’ve already met my companion: Will Graham. Will, this is Anita Blackenhoff, I’m sure you remember my telling you of her.”

“Sure,” Will lies as Anita’s teeth gleam in a delighted smile.

“Hannibal!” She says, gleefully. “Have you been spreading stories about me again?”

He takes her hand and, in a gesture so old-fashioned only someone with as much aplomb as Hannibal could make it look natural, presses a kiss to it. Anita is delighted and Will hears a mild-mannered voice interrupt saying, “Dr. Lecter, Mrs. Blackenhoff, if you wouldn’t mind” and before he knows what is happening, Hannibal’s hand is around his waist and he is turned in time for a flash of light to explode in his sensitive eyes.

“Thank you,” the voice says before moving on. 

“Well, I certainly hope Bill uses that one. He hasn’t printed my photo in weeks, I’m starting to feel neglected. Now,” she says, sipping conspiratorially at her champaign. “Why have you been hiding Mr. Graham from us, Hannibal? You know us old bats have nothing to do but live vicariously through you handsome young things.”

Instead of refuting the assumption as Will is expecting, Hannibal smiles and his hand wanders up to the nape of Will’s neck, carding his fingers through the thick, dark hair. It feels amazingly good, Will has to admit. He’s not normally one to enjoy physical contact, his skin just slightly too sensitive to feel it as anything other than unbearably intimate, but Hannibal’s touch is light. 

“I have to admit that I was afraid of your corrupting influence.”

Anita seems to like that answer because her face lights up. “Well, you simply have to join us at Hannibal’s next soiree. In all my years I have never found anyone to even come close to matching his exquisite dinners.”

“Not so many years,” Hannibal insists and Will has never seen him so animated. “But, of course, you are right. I suppose I cannot hide him forever. Will will join us next time.”

“Wonderful,” Anita says, eyes gleaming. “Hannibal is an artist in the kitchen.”

Hannibal inclines his head politely at the compliment. “It is only fair he joins us, after all. Will has provided the inspiration for more meals than he knows, he should taste what he has influenced.”

Anita opens her mouth, but she is interrupted by the chiming of bells. 

“It seems the performance will be starting soon. Anita, as always it has been a pleasure. Will...” Hannibal guides him forward with two fingers resting on Will’s elbow and he turns just long enough to see Anita’s exaggerated pout before following Hannibal’s lead.

“You.” Will isn’t sure what more he can say, simultaneously amused and offended by Hannibal’s insinuations. 

“Yes?” Hannibal asks and this time when Will meets his eyes there is so much in them he feels momentarily dizzy. 

There is amusement, of course, Hannibal is always vaguely amused. But there’s also something else, something dark spilling just below the surface, that Will has only caught faint glimpses of before. It is animalistic and raw- hungry and predatory- in a way that Hannibal, with his fine clothing and unfailing civility _isn’t_. It’s something that Will knows he can relate to only too well; he has seen an answering wildness staring back from the mirror more times than he cares to reflect on. 

So Will says nothing as he takes his seat to Hannibal’s right. The orchestra tunes their instruments in a sublime cacophony, and he can hear it echo deep in his bones. A wispy man stands, bows at the audience’s applause, and begins to conduct. Will can feel the music roll across his body, an ebb and flow that washes across his skin. Midway through the first concerto, Hannibal glances at him and the weight of his regard is like a dense fog, circling him and Will breathes it in. 

Almost unconsciously, Will spreads his legs so that his knee brushes Hannibal’s and when the other man doesn’t move, Will relaxes into it. Their outer thighs press together and through their trappings of comity, Will can feel the thrum of something fierce and feral.

They don’t speak of it afterwards, not even in the familiar darkness of country roads as Hannibal drives Will home that night, but when Will leans over the gear shift Hannibal meets him halfway. His kiss is savage and Will is left panting as they break apart. He isn’t surprised when, unbidden, Hannibal follows him into his house. 

The next morning Hannibal is frying eggs in Will’s boxers and little else. The morning light hovers above Hannibal’s pale skin, illuminating the red lines and crescent moons that speckle his back like confetti. Will can feel the burn of answering marks pull at his skin every time he shifts and he knows he is smiling, but he doesn’t seem able to stop.

As Hannibal serves breakfast, he drops a meticulously folded newspaper by Will’s elbow. It is the society page and Will reads the caption to the cropped photograph out loud. 

“Dr. Lecter and companion.” Will sets the newspaper aside as he takes up his fork. “Anita is not going to be happy.”


End file.
